Notice

I thought noticing meant paying closer attention. Maybe it also means letting myself be surprised.

I am good at seeing things most people ignore. I learned early in my life to be aware and pay attention, not because of any abuse or trauma, but because I was very clumsy. Over the years I have managed to get better at not tripping over my own feet when something catches my eye, although apparently there are still limits.

Noticing starts with seeing. A black-and-white bird I don't recognize. A tiny stream almost buried under greenery and hidden by stone. Those are the kinds of things I see. They aren't necessarily important and I don't have to do anything with them. Something catches my attention and, instead of immediately moving on, I stop and look.

I have no lesson for you this week, only a suggestion. Look out your nearest window and slowly look up, down and sideways. Stop when something draws your attention and really look at it. This isn't a quick scan but a slow, deliberate look. Or, if you can, step outside and walk 100 yards in any direction and do the same thing. The point is simply to see what you might normally skip over. That is noticing.

Noticing doesn't have to be directed outward. I am tired today, and that is another way to notice. Turn the same attention toward yourself. Pay attention to the aches and pains, the feel of the fabric against your skin, what feels good and what feels bad. Notice even the things you generally don't pay attention to. Give yourself the same slow attention you just gave the world outside your window.

Calgary gave me plenty of opportunities to practice this. I went to Reader Rock Garden expecting a rock garden laid out on relatively level ground, only to discover that the rocks were actually steps and the garden was vertical. It was a beautiful place, emphasis on beautiful, but definitely not what I expected. I probably wouldn't have seen nearly as much of it if I hadn't been determined to reach the café, which, as it happens, sits about halfway up what felt very much like a rock mountain.

The next day I went to the Calgary Central Library expecting an uninspiring building full of books and things. Instead, I found somewhere I could have explored for hours. Even the building surprised me, with its shape inspired by a Chinook cloud. I was particularly drawn to the fourth floor, with its Indigenous teachings and books, Canadian and world history, and inviting places to sit and read. Did I mention that this place was huge?

Maybe that is what I am learning about noticing. It isn't about searching for something extraordinary. It is about giving the ordinary enough time to become interesting. Expectation tells us what we think we're going to see. Noticing gives what is actually there a chance to surprise us. 

Following Curiosity

Most of my walks naturally fit this month's theme without me trying to make them fit. I don't set out thinking, "I need material for the blog." I simply go for a wander or two, and the story appears.

When I looked back over the week, I realized the story wasn't really about the places I visited. I think it's about what an adventure has become for me. It isn't going to BC or Ottawa. Those were the kinds of experiences I thought of as adventures.

 These days, adventure has taken on a different meaning. It might be following my curiosity down an unfamiliar street, noticing something I'd probably walked past for years, checking on a photography project, or realizing that morning glories are appearing all over the city.

Morning glories became part of a project I hadn't expected to begin. At first they were simply beautiful flowers climbing the trees and covering the raspberry bed in the back corner of the garden. I watched them slowly smother the raspberry canes in one corner until nothing else could grow there. That's when I learned that, although beautiful, they can also overwhelm everything around them. While out on one of my walks, I came across a hedge completely covered in morning glory vines and couldn't help wondering if the same thing would happen there. I've started photographing that hedge every couple of weeks to see how the story unfolds.

 Those photographs are becoming a pictorial essay I'm calling Deadly Beauty. I never planned that project. It grew out of simply paying attention.

The same thing happened with a couple of robins. I didn't go looking for them; they found me. Anyone who has ever tried photographing robins knows they rarely stay in one place for more than a few seconds. These two seemed perfectly content to let me stand there taking photographs until I had several I was genuinely happy with. Those photographs have already become more than pictures. They've inspired a journal page and even a writing prompt. Once again, curiosity quietly opened another creative door.

 That's a very different definition of adventure, and I think many of you will recognize yourselves in it. There are so many things to see if we simply spend the time looking. I don't think these discoveries were hidden. They had probably been there all along. I just wasn't paying enough attention to notice them.

As I looked back over the week, it occurred to me that my adventures naturally fell into two groups. There were the larger adventures, like turning down an unfamiliar street just to see where it led. Then there were the smaller adventures—the discoveries that only happened because I'd made that choice in the first place.

Maybe that's the real lesson. Adventure doesn't always ask us to go farther. Sometimes it simply asks us to look more closely.

Today's adventure can be solitary and unplanned, like wandering down an unfamiliar street. Tomorrow's adventure could be shared and planned—a family meal, a movie, laughter, and time together. It is becoming clear to me that adventure isn't one thing. Sometimes it's wandering without a destination. Sometimes it's making time for the people you love. Sometimes it's both.

As I was writing about my week, I found myself thinking that my July theme of Freedom & Play has quietly been present all along. Freedom isn't just choosing a different street to walk down. It's also giving yourself permission to be curious, to linger, to photograph an empty storefront because it means something to you, and to let an ordinary Friday afternoon become part of your story.

Maybe that's the biggest change of all. I used to measure adventure by how far I travelled. Now I measure it by how closely I pay attention.

 So, dear reader, here's an invitation. You don't need to book a holiday or climb a mountain. Your next adventure might begin by taking the long way home, noticing the flowers growing on a neighbour's porch, or turning down a street you've always meant to explore. You may discover, as I have, that the farther you let your curiosity wander, the richer your ordinary days become.